Condamné (Condemned)
by Syrubis
Summary: A different take on the genius. Megamind is, to put it simply, a depressed socio-path. He's Violent, unstable, incredibly volatile and has been stalking the object of his affections for years. So what happens when something really messes with his schedule and why does it involve waking up to an abused Roxanne Ritchi?


Depression seems to be less a disjointed state of mind and more an acute awareness, and then I wonder far too long whether I am not depressed, and merely too smart for my own good. As I'm sure many have wondered before me, and many more after.

Smoke pervades the air. In my haven it is always dark; the sun dares not touch me here, the breeze that tickles the toes of those above become stagnant, repugnant. The stench of mold and decay, it is constant. Unending is my solitary existence far from those who deem me a great many things, and wanted is none of them. I stand alone, and am reminded of this each morning, the toxic oppression of my home closing in, the dreary grey, the toneless form. I am as I stand.

There is a trickle of light, a little stray beam that shows the filth of the air, disguised as flecks of gold and silver, as if they could fool the rest with their essence hidden. I was less easily fooled, I could see their filthy, disgusting core, but I did not condemn them. Merely observed it, distractedly.

The flicker of a lighter sparking in my vision and I breathe in, slow, languid. I feel the air enter my lugs, expanding them, filling them, and it feels warm. Of dust and dry heat, a tickle, like a hum. My breath hitches and I hold it, and my body enters a standstill. Ticking away without the oxygen needed. It hitches again, desperate, crushing. I open my mouth slightly and it escapes, gently, having won the battle it marched justly, and gradually trickled away, relaxing, a calm after the war.

My mind clouded, feeling murky, half there, and I find there is a settlement of residue. All else becomes unfocused and the center thought, the individual, enveloping in its grandness. In the sides, no distractions, screaming, faceless people in my peripheral. Only the serene, endless darkness of the furthest reaches of my conscious, waking mind. I feel as though I could lean back, fade away into the nothingness that hangs close to my back, the tickle in my spine that tells me it's not safe there.

My limbs feel heavy now, each action slowly, impossibly so. I notice everything as my hand ghosts through the air, laying to rest something of the physical, grating it against the cold, damp cement as it is placed. I'm acutely aware of it, I can see it like a close up, slow motion, the wood sliding, grating away, breaking barely noticeable to our eyes, but true down to the science. I know it to be there, but I wonder idly, what does a lesser mind see? Perhaps the same. The knowing of a universe endlessly old, infinite, a part of us in the very essence of everything.

Yet, I'm still so sure, so very sure, that no one else has seen this. It is repeated, in thousands, the same, the exact same, but I cannot see else but my own, drowning the thoughts I know of logic, replacing them with intruders, those unfocused, illogical thoughts that I know are not clear, and therefore not true, but they have control of me. Despite a greater knowing I am no better than the weakest and frailest of my psyche.

It is a place far from the others, oppressed, I cannot leave here. Trapped as I am by the harrowing sadness, the misery I cannot be rid of even in my lightests of moments. Is it merely that I know? My mind behaves in kind to a single that knows too much, and therefore his thoughts are overwhelming. Like a light too bright to the dwellers of the deep, the shadows, where all knowledge hides.

Is it my fault for seeking it so? Or is it my fault for being too smart for a body that cannot support it, and too ignorant to handle a body that can? It's okay, I except that I cannot know, only silently rebel, as all lesser beings must. Finding no comfort in knowing I am not alone in at least one aspect of my life.

It does nothing to distract from the dark and loneliness around me. So thick it is suffocating.

I drag myself up, my body moving and it feels disjointed, heavy. My mind focused on the differences, the intricacies of my weight, and I know how to control it, a marvel in and of itself. It is but a brief glimpse of amusement that comes with thoughts of grandeur. I am learning, this I know. Always learning.

I can't see clearly, each step careful, calling up memories from before the dark, mapping out a route in a room filled with traps and hoping I was correct, a daring game, one rewarded with the coolness of metal, the scraping of it being drawn closer. Old, rusted, a chair barely suited for its purpose, but more comforting than the cool dampness of the floor. It is here that I would sit for another large portion of my day, lost in my thoughts.

So very few could comprehend this emptiness, and none could see. A good day was still as dreary as a bad. They were all the same now, like drifting through the days, lazily, uncaring and unmoved to the plights of those around you, blinded or focused, it is hard to tell. So disjointed, but no one sees because no one considers, and no one knows there to be a difference. I still stand, and perform my part to a crowd of those who care less about others and more about themselves. We are the entire center of our own worlds, and to all outsiders… They cease to exit.

I feel a deep seated knowing, an awareness of my place and how I should not be there. I know the solution, too. I can comprehend that knowledge like few others, and it is present in all I do now. Each moment screams an exit, whispers telling you 'this is the way out'. Yet never do I listen, not fearful, but something stops me. It does nothing for the thoughts to be reminded, they still block out all others when faced with a neon sign that tells you this moment, this very moment, could be our end. Our end, staring down our final moments, and then it is not. I'm not that lucky, I suppose.

Then again, some suffer with nothing, and though all true suffering is in silence I at least have the benefit of saying with conviction I have someone I'm comfortable with. Though, a friend that cannot comprehend is of little comfort to my desperate mind. Nevertheless, it is no small amount of gratitude that in my darkest moments I have someone who cares enough to feign interest in whatever makes me happiest at the time, and despite the awareness that I am merely intruding on time they'd much rather assign to something else, they make no comment of it.

It is tiring, though. Each moment in company of others feels draining, I grow tired quickly and the socialization becomes a chore. It is not a pleasant atmosphere to know that neither of you wish to be there, yet you both stand in awkward silence waiting desperately for that out that will provide us the opportunity to run madly to solitude.

I wonder if perhaps we think the same, both of us too good at what we do, convinced the other a fool when we try hard to convince them in turn. It becomes too hard to differentiate truths from lies. I don't know anyone, just the person they entrust to us. It is sad knowledge.

Sometimes, when our mask slips, they notice the change of character, and by demand of social conduct the ask 'are you okay?' and the answer is always yes, but neither of us care. We pretend, oh yes, but always lies and despite both of us being aware we maintain it. Why? I honestly don't know.

A light flashes in the corner of my eye, and my computer announces with a proud beep that it has detected what I've been waiting for. I stand and move slowly towards it, lifting the small object in weak hands and bring it back with me. I feel the warmth of it on my lap and it provides a strange comfort. Like a connection to something more. I lift the lid and am greeted with an image that installs relief, and also the distant thoughts of wrongness, perversion and desperation.

On the screen several boxes litter the interface, displaying in time several neat and tidy rooms. A bedroom, bathroom, lounge, kitchen and laundry, all empty except for the perfectly maintained belongings that decorate them, maintained only through disinterest. I know this to be true, because I have seen them untouched since they were first placed, briefly dusted in lieu of company.

In the lounge a door opens slowly into an unlit room. The glow of streetlamps outside illuminate it briefly as a figure enters and closes the door behind them, walking towards the kitchen as though each step was agony. Clothes falling to the ground in each stride. The light in the next room flickers as it is turned on, and dims occasionally as the woman continues her business. Her lingerie hanging loosely from her hips and shoulders, it is nice, attractive on her, but not due to interest. She doesn't pick it for its beauty or comfort, merely reaches for it as the closest and brings it home.

She pulls open an empty fridge, void to anything but an old bottle of milk. She knows there's nothing there, but she always looks. Next, she moved to the cupboard and retrieves a can of unlabeled soup, pulls the tab and pours it haphazardly into a white bowl. She heats it in the microwave, staring at the machine without moving for several long minutes, before removing the heated food gingerly and placing it on the bench. She sits on stool, elbows either side of her meal and her head in her hands.

She stares at it as though it holds some great secret, sometimes she tastes it, but not tonight. It cools overtime and eventually she pushes it away, stands and makes her way down the hall, towards a large bedroom. So tidy one would never suspect the filthy, disgusting acts that had taken place the night before. Acts that had left clothes of strangers hanging from the chandelier long after the maid had ushered out no longer welcome guests.

She only brought home women, but I see her in the night and know she wants more than that, it is amusing, yet she never looks at subjects she brings home, her time is occupied of porn with dangerous men far to obviously male for my liking. I doubt anyone would ever know, either. So good is her disguise, but I can see far more of her soul than anyone else, and know so much of her to be lies, disproven with her deeds.

Her bed looks unusually cold tonight as she climbs in, tossing the blankets over herself, wrapped up in a cocoon, her only safety. She'll sleep for only a short while, and I have become accustomed to waking shortly before her, though tonight I would not risk it. I'd watched her on t.v, today, and knew there were stresses on her shoulders. She would sleep shortly, if it all, before raising and moving to her computer. I would wait for her.

Like I predicted, she did not sleep long, and I was instilled with a moment of comfort at the ping of her arrival to the computer, shortly followed by a low buzz as a chat client covered my screen, and her words stood like cuts on pale flesh.


End file.
